Random Thought Friday: Rabbits Are Terrifying

In my neighborhood, here in Irvine, there are a ridiculous amount of rabbits.  A ridiculous amount.  And to be honest, they totally freak me out because when I was five years old my neighbor had a rabbit and it bit me in the leg.  I had to get tested for rabbis, kids from all over would come over to see the "rabbit bite," my parents waited for me to foam at the mouth - it was awful.  So, now almost thirty years later, I'm just waiting for one of these monsters to strike again.  And if they do try, I swear to you faithful readers, I will have no problem launching a sweet bunny with my right foot for all my neighbors to see.

Have a good weekend.

Slapping Could Become A National Holiday If You Are Willing To Help

The other day was National Middle Child Day.  (I didn't celebrate it for fear of offending one of my siblings.  I mean, I have an older brother and a twin sister, who is older than me by 28 minutes, you tell me, genius of genealogy, who's day it is?)  And, yesterday was Left Hander's Day and on the 30th is Marshmallow Toasting Day.  Can we just stop this madness?  I mean, seriously, what is going on here?

First, who decided and fought for April 4th to be National Tell a Lie Day?  Was there a march in Washington I wasn't told about?  Was I told and LIED TO that the march was in New York?  Did it require a lot of signatures?  Did people even write their real names?  Did my father sign it "Clark Kent" like how he signed all my report cards and bad tests?  What do you get someone for this holiday?  Tell your boyfriend you are pregnant with someone else's baby, and when he freaks out, you say, "Silly, it's National Tell a Lie Day.  Remember?!"

Secondly, who is aware of these random holidays and are people out there actually celebrating them?  Is someone right now taking an oath of silence until June 15th where they can officially scream, because it's National Hollering Day, at their entire office for the whole work day?  Or is there a mass murderer out there just plotting his day of terror on National Beheading Day, when he can chop a bunch of heads off and plead, "But, but, but...it's a holiday?!" when he's arrested?

And lastly, and most importantly, are all the days taken up?  Isn't there still stuff out there that should be, no needs to be celebrated?  Like National Slap Someone Day?  What, there's only been failed campaigns on Facebook to promote slapping of co-workers and general idiots?  And even a "Slap Someone's Butt" didn't really take off?  No one has locked up this day?  Fantastic.  Bring on the signatures, bring on the open date, hopefully some time around the spring - let's get this one on the books. Who's with me?

All holidays can be found on http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/

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Babies are Weird

I've said it before, or maybe I haven't...anyway, babies are weird.  Honestly weird.  My baby, though I love her with every bone in my body, can be slightly weird.  Here's why:

1. When I feed her (from my ta-tas) she likes to either slap me repeatedly on my chest, or bring her feet up to my mouth. Again, I'm giving life saving subsistence to this child and she is beating me.  Weird.

2. My baby is Wolverine.  Honestly, she'll get a scratch or a bump while playing and within ten minutes it's completely gone.  Her skin is literally healing itself at an abnormal rate.  I wear a pair of goggles swimming one night and two weeks later people are asking me who pressed cookie cutters around my eyes.  Weird.

3. Feeding herself real food is dumb.  Eating ANYTHING else off the ground, at the playground or from a bag of trash is totally acceptable.  Weird.

I could think of more but I'm afraid her Wolverine like claws are going to find their way up my nose again.

It Is Now Safe to Unbuckle Your Belt and Create A Mob

In less than three weeks the husband, the baby and I are flying to Hawaii.  Now before you get disgusted with me for going to Hawaii, let me re-state that last sentence: the husband, THE BABY and I are FLYING to Hawaii.  Flying on a plane for four hours with a child, who hates to sit still, wants to crawl over everything and can only sleep if it's pitch dark, in her bed and with some gentle ocean sounds.  (Yes, yes, I created this monster.  Let's move on.)  So, what are my thoughts right now?  Um, sheer terror comes to mind.  Protecting my child from a mob of angry fliers, who have grouped together around our seat with signs that read, "No More Babies On Planes" and "I Didn't Pay $400 to Hear a Baby Cry."  (Where did they get the poster boards for signs?  I don't know.  Why is it all of the sudden a dark night and some of them are holding torches?  Again, I can't explain this mob.)

Now, to be honest, our baby doesn't really cry, but she does enjoy exploring and completely invading people's personal space.  In the past, this little Christopher Columbus act (the exploring, not the committing of genocide of Native Americans) hasn't been a problem, but on a plane I fear what is going to happen.  All I can picture are dirty hands reaching out over, through and under seats to grab my child's hands, and like the movie Contagion, passing on some crazy bird virus they picked up during a business trip to China.  I'm going to ask, but I don't think they'll allow it, but I'm thinking of walking behind the drink cart and dumping sanitizer on anyone who even had the thought of touching my baby or handing over their nasty keys for her to jingle eat.  It sounds extreme, but I think once they feel the disappearing gel hit and then wash over them, they are going to thank me and my baby for boarding their flight.

Do you think it's too late to just ship my baby?

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It Ain't Really Mine

For the past ten years I've been living in rental homes and apartments.  And though I hate not being able to freely knock down walls or convert our "office" into a meth lab (Okay, yes, that's not entirely true, but if I'm going to really go for my life long dream of a meth lab, I want it done right and permanent.  No, "Oh, this is just right and making good product," to "Oh, we are moving and I have to pack this up?"  No one wants that.)  Anyway, outside of being handcuffed into following the law, there have been some perks to renting.

For example, almost all the plants outside my home and the trees in the back are dead.  Sure, I feel bad, but let's be honest - I didn't plant them in the first place, I didn't sign a lease to be a gardener and water costs money, which someone, we'll call "my landlord," didn't offer to cover.  Sorry.  So, what's the perk here?  Well, in a year or so I'll move to another place with new plants and trees, where I can enjoy them until I systematically kill them and move to another place.  And while I'm gone someone, we'll call "my landlord," will dig up the causalities I left behind and plant some new ones.  Everyone wins!

Secondly, you know how annoying it is to clean a really large shower?  Well, if it ain't yours and you aren't planning on dying in the shower at the ripe age of 92, then give it a basic clean and when it gets truly unbearable - say it with me everyone - move!  Yes, move.  Move to a new place, demand the new bathroom be polished and enjoy the next two years!  

* I may have embellished a few things in this post.  One, not every plant is dead.  Two, my shower isn't as gross as some would say.  And three, I'm not taking anything back about the meth.

Friday's Random Thought: Dog People and Baby People

For Fridays I've decided to give you a random thought I had in the course of the week.  Some of these random thoughts become blog posts and some just stay floating there. Here's one of them:

I always hated how dog people felt the need to stop and talk to other dog people.  It's like just because you both pick up poop in a plastic bag doesn't mean you should stop and have a moment together.  And then I had a kid and all of the sudden I find myself stopping people with babies, and instead of allowing my baby to sniff their baby, I hear myself asking the dumbest questions: "So, how old?  Oh yeah, how much did they weigh when they were born?  Eating solids yet?"

I got to stop.  A stranger and me had a baby around the same time of year - It's not like we both shared the experience of surviving a bank robbery.  Move along.

Pot or Swimming?

For the past couple of weeks I've been attempting to swim laps at night, and you know what I've realized about swimming?  It sucks. No, seriously, in the way of exercise it totally sucks. Jumping off diving boards, playing Marco Polo, doing hand stands in the water = fun.  Swimming back forth like a human ping pong game = sucks.  (I'll elaborate, but before I do, I must apologize to my mother for the excessive use of "sucks."  For some reason, "suck" was not a word we were allowed to use in our home.  So, sorry Mom, I su...)

Okay, now before you get all swimming is great for your body and blah, blah, blah let's discuss why no one should be swimming for exercise:

ONE
It's not easy.  You know all those idiots, who do it really fast in the Olympics and make it look really fun?  Well, they are lying to you America.  Lying.  I don't know if you know this, but humans can't breathe under water and you know what you need when you are exercising?  AIR!  You know where and when it's hard to find air?  WHILE THRASHING AROUND IN A POOL TRYING NOT TO DIE.

TWO
It's boring.  Seriously, boring.  You know why Michael Phelps starting using pot after the Olympics?  Because his mind was already so wasted from going back and forth, and back and forth in a pool.  Honestly, being stoned must have seemed like another day at practice. And if that's not enough did you ever watch Ryan Lochte's show on E!?  The guy is a two levels above a coma patient.  He's a moron.  Seriously, I would have liked to known the Ryan Lochte before swimming - I bet he was a sharp guy.

THREE
The pool.  The pool.  I know they contain chemicals that magically protect you from other people's urine, snot, spit and whatever bodily fluids, but still.  Still.  They are floating in there, I'm running that crap in and out of my mouth...I can't go on.  It's just...no, let's just leave it at...the pool.

So, I'm thinking of just taking up pot. If it's good enough for Michael Phelps...

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A Killer Weekend

Since becoming a parent the weekend has definitely changed.  No more trying new restaurants, or taking long walks after dinner, or stumbling through the streets drunk and happy from a crazy night of clubbing.  (Okay, the last part never happened, but if I had just been given ONE more year, without this 16 pounder, I know I would have been able to kill it.)

No, the weekends are more like prom nights, where leading up to them you get all excited for the possibilities they hold, but in actuality turn into sad nights of washed away dreams of romance, dining and going to bed sooner than you had thought because your feet are killing you.

I know what you are going to say - sell the baby get a babysitter.  Listen, babysitters are great, but every babysitter we've ever had doesn't elicit a lot of confidence out of me in their ability to guard my baby from an intruder, since each has weighed less than my prepubescent fourth grade weight, (Which was 100 lbs. Yeah, fourth grade.) or to correctly change a diaper without consulting Youtube.  So, we stay in, pick up take out, and wait until capable babysitting robots replace eating disorder 13 year-olds before we think of going out again.

So, outside of El Pollo Loco and promising five minute back rubs to each other, what does our hot weekend nights entail?  One thing and one thing only - 48 Hour Mysteries.  If you haven't had the pleasure of watching this show let me break it down for you.  Someone is murdered.  Someone was having an affair.  Someone gets caught.  Sure there's variations on the story, but essentially that's it.

Now as much as I love guessing who had the affair, our constant watching of these shows is starting to bother me.  One, I'm starting to wonder if my husband's eagerness to tune in is less about fascination with mysteries and more about the "correct steps to take in order to get away with killing your wife."  He'll always say after a show, "Seriously, its not hard.  Don't spend a lot of money before the killing, hide the mistress and have a legitimate alibi!"  Like a dutiful wife, I'll nod my head in agreement, and then after, spend the rest of the night trying to break into his email.  What?  I'm finding the mistress before the police report.

Lastly, these mysteries have increased my paranoia level and made me a more crazy observant neighbor.  For example, the other night I noticed a van parked out front.  Without a second thought I studied the make and model and even noted the time I saw it.  Why?  Because friends, that's how these crimes are solved.  A woman walking a dog in the forest, picks up a receipt from Home Depot where someone bought duct tape, a baseball bat, large industrial plastic bags and a shovel, decides to keep it, hears about this murder in town, calls the police, gives the receipt, WHICH IS TIME STAMPED, cameras are checked, husband with mistress comes in, buys the stuff, walks out, old lady remembers red truck with shovel hanging out the back, follow truck on street cameras, see receipt go out window and BAMMMM - dog walking mom is a H-ero.

Folks, I might not be having a rocking weekend, and I might have a husband plotting my demise, but before I leave this earth I'm taking it all in, and by golly, I'm going to see something one day that will save someone's life.

Or cause my neighbors to get a restraining order.

If this blog post didn't overtly bother you click on the Top Mommy Blog Picture!

I've Joined The Ranks of Mommy Blogging

So, let's explain that little logo to the right of this post. You see it.  The big, teethed lady that has her hands up trying to say, "Hey, I caught you reading this blog when you should have been working."  Well, let's disregard her incredibly passive aggressive judgmental smile and focus on why she's there.  You see, each day I find myself going slightly nuts being at home with the little one.  Sure, I love her, find her hilarious, love being a mom, blah, blah, blah, but I'll admit I feel like my brain is slowly deteriorating into a small piece of mush.  So, I blog.  I blog because all day sarcastic thoughts come into my head that the baby and the team of GMA, who never seems to hear me from the TV, are just not getting.  Therefore, I decided to try to venture out a little bit more and share what some have called, "...a genius work of observation...," and others have said, "...a glowing achievement of insight..." and my good friend once described as, "...wow, what a colossal waste of time..." with other mothers and blog stalkers.  So, I joined the Top Mommy Blogs.  Do I think this will boost my readership up from its solid 7? Who knows, but hopefully so.  So, click on the logo.  Every time someone clicks on it I receive a vote and my blog climbs up the steep slope of Top Mommy Blogs.  Do it every time you read one my posts and I might send you a t-shirt.  Might.  And the t-shirt might be an old Duke Lacrosse t-shirt my husband has told me to either donate, or rip up to use as a rag to clean the bathroom.

So, again let's review: Me lonely.  Me Write.  Me Need You.  You click Logo each time you read a post.  Me get votes.  Me Happy.  You Might get T-shirt.

Here's to climbing the charts!

I'm Sorry I Didn't Hear What You Said Because Someone Is Making Love In My Ear

Every day from 4-5 (in case anyone is stalking me) I go for a walk with the little one.  And while I walk I usually listen to an audio book on my phone.  Here's the thing about audio books - they're awesome because one, they pass the time.  Two, you can still say, "I read that," because no one is going to ask you, "Now, when you said 'read' did you mean 'listen to.'"  (And if they ask this call them a jerk.  Go ahead. I give you permission.)  Three, audio books ensure I won't do a "Kate read" through the last four chapters, which basically consists of me reading the first sentence of each paragraph.  (This drives my husband crazy because he'll be like, "So, how did he die in the end?" and I'll be like, "Who died?")  And lastly, listening to the book makes you a star at the book club.  Why?  Because let's be honest, there are some characters' names in books no one has a clue on how to pronounce.  If you think I'm wrong tell me how you said Hermione from Harry Potter in your mind when you read the 19,000 page books?  I'll bet you were shocked when you saw the movie and little Harry said Hermione (focus on the "eeee").  Had you listened to the book you would have been able to save yourself the embarrassment (because that's exactly what it was) of exclaiming, "That's not how I thought her name sounded!?"

Now for the drawbacks of the audio book.  One, if you walk away from an audio book for a few weeks best of luck finding your place.  Before you know it your main character is getting back from a funeral and just about to make love to his nemesis.  How did this happen?  Who died?  You'll never know.

And two, audio books can be extremely awkward.  For example, it's one thing to read a steamy scene in a book and it's another to actually hear it loudly in your ear.  Somehow listening to it makes me feel like I've stumbled into a kind of movie theater my mother told me to stay away from.  And then as the scene gets worse, I find myself thinking the whole world knows I'm listening to absolute smut right now.  I'll pass fellow walkers with a look of, "I'm sorry for what you might catch as you walk by me.  It seemed like an innocent enough crime thriller...morning..."

So, here's my final analysis: Audio Books - great ways to pass the time, but causes terrible moments of awkwardness.  Recommendation: Never listen to audio books with your parents or keep them on when you pull up to toll booths.

Help CPS! Monkeys Are Being Abused!

As I've mentioned before children's books baffle me.  This morning I was reading "Five Little Monkeys."  For those of you who actually get to read intelligent material let me break this book down.  It basically consists of five monkeys jumping on a bed, falling off, bumping their head and then their negligent mother calling the doctor, who responds with, "Tell them no more monkeys should jump on the bed."  And then, as if the doctor's instructions weren't clear enough, the remaining monkeys continue to jump on the bed and one by one fall off, bump their head, a call is made and the same "medical advice" is given.

Where to begin?  Um, how come this mother isn't being taken away and the monkeys given to the CPS?  Five monkeys in one night fall and become injured.  How do we know they were jumping on the bed?  Is this a cover for some massive abuse?  And shame on the doctor.  A female monkey has just called you on five separate occasions to tell you another injury has occurred and all you can say is, "Hey tell them to stop."  Gee, thanks doctor.  Is that your medical opinion or something you looked up on www.webmd.com?  And lastly, the fantastic parenting continues when after all five have fallen, received some medical bandages on top of their heads and fallen asleep, the mother exclaims, "Thank Goodness" and goes to bed as well.  What's wrong with this picture? Um, all five monkeys might have concussions and you are just going to let them sleep it off?  No waking them up every hour?

I'm appalled.  What is my baby to learn from this?  You can keep falling but the doctor ain't helping you?  Monkey injuries aren't that serious?  Come on children books help me out here!

That Would Be Poo In My Hands

Since having a baby I can officially say I've done things I NEVER thought I would do a year ago.  For example, I sniff her butt all day. Okay, not the actual butt, but pretty close. And then once I take in the fresh unbearable smell, I find myself reporting to some imaginary friend if it's a clean or dirty diaper.  So, again let's recap: I voluntarily go looking for bad smells AND I talk to a person, who is not there.  Awesome.

Second of all, I've voluntarily touched a lot of poo.  I know that comes with the job, but the other day I think it went a little too far.  So, the little one hates to sit still while getting changed.  She'll twist and turn, and try to leap off the changing table (I know, I know, if I just let her hit the ground one time she'll finally learn...)  So, the other day I was changing her on the floor, and after wrestling her for a few minutes, I decided to let her go and run free.  So, off she went, buck naked - ready to conquer the world. (Much like how I was my freshman year in college.)  When all of the sudden while she went to pull herself up onto a TV stand I saw a nice piece of poo start to come out of her.  (Again, much like my freshman...wait a second.)  Immediately, I jumped up and in one motion, grabbed my naked child and the poo from landing on the ground. Yep, again, for those of you not fully grasping this image: I, a 34 year old college graduate, found myself holding a naked child in one arm and a handful of poo in the other.  And here's the scariest part: I didn't freak out.  I didn't even gag a little bit. Nope, you would have thought I was holding a crisp 100 dollar bill in my hand.  Had this happened to me a year ago I would have probably doused my hand in gasoline and just set it on fire.

Ah, why didn't anyone tell me that becoming a mother actually paralyzes all natural responses?  Wait did someone tell me this?  Did they call it love?  No, that's sounds stupid.

Keep The Madness Off The Car

Recently I traveled, by car, to St. George, Utah and the Grand Canyon.  And while I was driving these mind numbing roads, suppressing coughs and basic breathing (so the baby would continue to nap in the car) I began to notice some very interesting personalized license plate frames.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  The ones that read: I Would Rather Be Driving a Golf Ball. Get it?  Not driving a car but a golf ball?  Genius.  Now these kind of cheesy frames don't bother me because usually it's just some retired man's attempt to spruce up his Cadillac. It's all good Grandpa - drive on.

The ones that bother me fall under three categories:

1. The Princess License Frames

We've all seen these.  They are usually bedazzled with some rhinestones, colored in pink, and most likely placed on the car by some father or mother who was trying to passive aggressively tell their daughter how annoying they feel they've become.  While driving I saw one that read on the top: But, But, But...and on the bottom it read...I'm the Princess. And as I passed the car to give the obligatory stare of disgust, I saw a morbidly obese girl texting on her cell phone while driving with her knee.  Cinderella and Snow White eat your heart out.  Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not jealous of these self-proclaimed Princesses.  I just wish that they would respect real royalty and be honest about themselves.  Maybe instead of saying, "Beware Here's Comes The Princess" they could be truthful and say, "Beware here comes a woman in her thirties, who still lives in a fantasy world where she thinks she should be treated like the most important person in the room."  I'm sure there's a website that could handle this order.

2. The Exaggerated Declarations

I get it.  You think you are a great Grandma or Aunt or whatever, but I don't need to see it on your car.  Because really #1 Grandma?  Really?  Who voted? I didn't vote.  How do I know you don't secretly lace your home cooked cookies with Vicodin?  Do you even have grandchildren?  And lastly, I just passed your car and there's a man driving it!  Now what? Does this license frame mean anything?  How can a man be the #1 Grandma??!

3. Are You Trying To Get Pulled Over

I'm not kidding when I say I saw these two license frames: 1. Drunk Guy Coming Through  and 2. The top had three Marijuana leafs on it and on the bottom it said I'm High.  Yep, an actual statement of "I'm High."  What's the end game here?  Are you promoting drunk driving?  Do you hate MADD?  Were you actually high when you placed this on your car?

So, people please give me a second.  I get it - it's tempting to place something on your car in order to distinguish yourself from all the other cars out there, but let's think about it first.  Sure you'll always find the car that reads: Do Not Disturb...I'm disturbed enough Already - but do you really want to be associated with the "crazy car" at work?  Well, actually you are probably just an unemployed blogger...never mind - bad example.

That's My Dad

If you are just starting to read this blog, one, thank you for accidentally stumbling upon this, and staying on it, while you were searching for some inappropriate site about Hicks and California, and two, there's something you should know about me: I was either abducted by the FBI one night and implanted with a facial recognition software, or I was born with a super human power of recognizing the most random people.  Either way, if you have recently lost a loved one and can't seem to find them, or if you are curious if anyone at the grocery store was ever in a commercial - I'm your girl.  Am I exaggerating?  Hmm, let's see.  Yesterday at My Gym (see below entry) I recognized a couple, who lived in Santa Monica four years ago and who attended the restaurant I worked at ONCE.  ONCE!  I took one look at them, shuffled through my bionic facial database and asked, "Did you guys live in Santa Monica?"  Boom goes the dynamite.  Three years ago the actor, who played a high school meat head in the 1980s flick, Can't Buy Me Love, came into restaurant and after serving him coffee, I asked, "Where you in Can't Buy Me Love?"  He was so blown away by my recognition, he brought his wife into the restaurant the following day to introduce me as the "one who actually recognized me."

And then on Sunday, my super human powers showed they are getting even stronger.  Each Sunday morning the husband and I watch "Sunday Morning" on CBS.  (With great shame I'll admit I watch a show on CBS.)  During a segment on hamburgers, some footage from the 1950s was shown of two guys barbecuing outside.  The footage couldn't have been longer than 4 seconds, but immediately I grabbed the remote, rewound the channel, and declared, "That's my Dad."  Sure enough somehow CBS had gotten hold of some old footage my grandfather took for the Union Pacific that showed my Dad and his friend barbecuing outside.  I know, impressive right?  Now, I just need to figure out one, if I can make any money off this gift, and two, if the FBI has been using me this whole time. Check out the video at the 19 second mark. The good looking guy in the apron is my Dad.

Employed People Are Funny

I know my last entry was all about questioning peoples' professions, and since I didn't get a single comment or piece of hate mail...I'm at it again.  (Yes, the irony of my unemployed self making fun of people, who are actually employed, is not lost on me.)

So, where are we going to mock today?  A little place called My Gym.  Now, before you get all excited, let me first say, My Gym, which is basically a large indoor gymnastics playground for little ones, is the coolest thing I've ever seen since becoming a mom. (That would also include the past two episodes of Real Housewives of New Jersey - which technically I watched as a mom.)  No, I'm not going to mock the place that causes my child to nap for hours afterwards, I'm going to mock the grown men, who are the instructors at My Gym.  First of all, raise of hands of who is wondering what websites these guys are registered on.  Seriously, I love the songs, the puppet shows and the tumbling, but there's just something about a guy my age doing this as a profession.  What does he say his job is to his friends?  A Developer of Children Coordination and Stimulation.  (Still sounds creepy)  Child Entertainment Specialist.  (I'm gulping some water to swallow that.)  Does he even talk about his work to his peers? (Scene at a bar after work.)  "Oh yeah, today was rough.  If I have to teach one more kid on how to do a head stand I think my head is going to explode.  Am I right?"  Silence from his doctor and lawyer friends.  And lastly, how does one, being a grown man in his thirties, fall into this profession?  Was it a dare?  Did Chuck E. Cheese reject his application for skee ball operator?  Honestly, how did it happen?

Again, I ask these questions, but really I don't care.  My baby is sound asleep, I'm blogging my afternoon away, and nothing inappropriate happened today at class. I would say My Gym is A. O. K.

Pipe Springs Dream

Yesterday, I returned from a week long road trip to St. George and the Grand Canyon.  On the way to the Grand Canyon my parents and I stopped off at Pipe Springs.  You know, the National Monument? You know, how the water of Pipe Spring made it possible for plants, animals and people to live in a dry and desert region.  Pueblo and Kaibab Paiute Indians?  Mormons?  Nothing? 

Well, if you are ever headed to the lame Grand Canyon make sure you stop off here.  Or stop here and turn back to where you came from.  It's your choice.

So, anyway, while we stopped at this national treasure we were fortunate enough to catch the 1 o'clock tour of the fort, given by Rebekah, a real National Monument Ranger!  (Apparently, the spring needed to be guarded from the Indians.)  As I listened to Rebekah tell us about the old floors and how they all slept in the same room, I thought, "Rebekah, may I call you Rebekah or would you prefer Ranger Rebekah?  How did you get here? No, seriously, was this the plan?  Are you actually running from the law and figured no one in their right mind would check Pipe Springs because really, let's be honest, it's sort of an "interesting" bathroom break.  Or, did you somehow stumble on the "The Most Boring Jobs On Earth" book one day in the library, and decided right then and there, that if you couldn't work as a toll booth collector, you would become a Park Ranger in Arizona? And not a cool park like, um, oh yeah, the Grand Canyon, but at Pipe Springs??  Or lastly, do you just dig the outfit?  Is that it?  Are the polyester forest green pants just too hard to pass up that you would go anywhere, and I mean, anywhere, to just wear them in 110 degree weather?  Huh? Rebekah?"

Unfortunately, I never really got the chance to ask all my questions. I did, however learn that, after Rebekah asked us if we liked cheese, because we were standing next to a giant cheese maker from the 1890s, a kid in the tour group doesn't like cheese because it makes him constipated.  So, that was interesting.  

Ground Zero of Baby Throw Up

In the past week my baby has decided to throw up twice.  The whole experience of a baby throwing up is totally weird.  For example, in one moment your baby goes from this adorable, fun loving little person to a monster experiencing an exorcism.  Honestly, this morning she was in a mid-laugh, when all of the sudden, she stopped, looked at me and then enough liquid to fill a bathtub came out. As it was going on I just kept screaming, "Bad spirit be gone...be gone!"

Secondly, when a baby throws up it's like being at ground zero of a bomb explosion.  First, I assess if there are any survivors.  Did the vomit actually get my entire outfit from head to toe, or is that right sock still wearable?  Should I just throw away the baby's onesie, or do I care enough to actually scrap off the vomit and wash it?  Secondly, I check for causalities.  Is the carpet underneath me ever going to smell normal again?  Should we move and just forfeit our deposit now?  And lastly, I call for help.

And the last part that is the strangest about a baby throwing up is your mandatory reaction as a parent.  In any other normal situation, when someone throws up on you, you would, like any normal person, either scream and run, gag and run or gag, scream and then run.  I remember one time in college my drunken roommate asked me to hold her hair as she threw up.  As she started to spew into the toilet, I not only let go of her hair, but somehow in the process I managed to push her head down directly into the bowl as I quickly backed away.  (Fortunately, she was so drunk I just told her she fell from the car on the way to the dorm.)  But, again - She didn't even throw up on me and I was trying to get away. But as a parent, these are not your options.  Instead, you just have to take it.  You have to let the vomit wash over you, AND THEN, not worry that this foul smell will seep into your pores, but that this little one is okay.  The other night, when I was covered in two hour ingested sweet potatoes, I wanted to wash myself in gas and fire, but I didn't.  I couldn't.  I'm a mom, and let's be honest, third degree burns is never fun to recover from.

The Do's and Don'ts of Stalking

So, it probably won't come as any surprise to you - you faceless readers of this here blog, but I have some pretty cool and famous friends.  Yeah, and I'm not even including my first name basis friendship with the star of Rookie Blue.  Yeah, Rookie Blue.

Anyway, I was just messaging one of my famous friends, who recently had to change her name on Facebook because of some scary incidents of being stalked...again, you read that right:  I, Real Housewife of Irvine, have such a famous friend, that she, not only had to change her name on Facebook, BUT is being stalked. (Cue Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You."  What?  Probably the greatest movie of stalking EVer.)

So, they we were joking back and forth about stalking, when I suddenly remembered that I too have been stalked!  Good times, right?  No seriously, it was during my first semester at college.  Each morning I would wake up and find flowers, poems, and I think food one time, outside my door. With each gift, a note would be left expressing his love for me and then a description of some time "this admirer" saw me on campus.  At first I was sort of creeped out, and then when it continued, I continued to be creeped out.  At night, my roommate and I would try to stay up and wait for my stalker to drop off his tokens of adoration, but we always seemed to miss him.  Finally, one night, I and some friends, were headed back to our dorms on the campus bus, when this guy, who was obviously very drunk, got on and sat down close to us.  After a few stops, he turned around and said, while pointing to me, "I know where you live."  I would like to take a moment and stop here to point out, if any of you are thinking of getting into stalking or stalking me, please remember the number one rule of stalking: DON'T TELL THE PERSON, WHO YOU ARE STALKING, THAT YOU KNOW WHERE THEY LIVE.  It sort of takes the mystery out of the game.

And while I'm dispensing some guidelines for stalking let's talk about rule number two: WHEN STALKING MANIFESTS ITSELF IN GIFTS AND POEMS - MAKE THEM COOL.  I can still remember my stalker leaving some sonnet at my door about "Sweet Katherine." Really a sonnet?  You think a sonnet is going to get me to fall in love with you?  On the other side of the sonnet is there a check for a million dollars - because now I'm feeling a lot more love out of this gesture.

And lastly number three: IF THE GUY IS HOT IT'S NOT STALKING, BUT ROMANTIC.  IF HE LOOKED LIKE MY 1997 ADMIRER THEN HE IS DEFINITELY CLASSIFIED AS A STALKER.  Remember - hot = ok.  not hot = restraining order.

I'm happy to report that once all my friends and I screamed at the same time, "YOU ARE THE STALKER!" and ran off the bus screaming like a man with a chainsaw was chasing us, I stopped getting my morning surprises.  Unfortunately, during my senior year my lacrosse team hired a new manager...yep, Shakespeare himself was now being paid to watch me.

Oh, stalking...

All My Dreams Coming True

Last night I dreamed that I was standing in a very long line at Target when this woman tried to butt in front of me.  At first I was really angry because all I had was one item, but then I decided to let her in front of me because she was old and seemed a little crazy.  Once she got in line I realized Avery needed to eat and I needed to get home...and then the dream ended.  (I know, this entry has already rewarded you for the two minutes you've wasted reading it.)

As I sat there in bed reflecting on my riveting dream I had two thoughts: 1. Seriously?  Not only do I visit Target twice a week, but NOW I'm dreaming about it?  And 2. If I'm dreaming about Target what does Jay-Z dream about?  Diving in money like Uncle Scrooge on Duck Tales?

If I dream tonight about thousands of red shirts and khaki pants I'm never going to sleep again.

Not so Much "Goodwill"

On Saturday, I decided to do a little spring cleaning and donate a bunch of our finest crap to our local Goodwill.  So, while the baby was sleeping off her three day fever, I loaded up the car with clothes, shoes, a duvet cover and a baby swing...and off I went to save the world.  As I pulled up to the Goodwill location, which was just a large trailer from a 18 wheeler truck in the middle of a deserted parking lot, I wondered if this was just some scam to collect crap and then hold a giant yard sale at some other location.  However, on further investigation, I saw a man with a clipboard - and let's be honest, if you have a clipboard you aren't running a scam...holding a pamphlet entitled "Green Peace," then you are running a scam.  (Oh, BURN!)

Anyway, I walked up to the Goodwill employee with a garbage bag filled with clothes and he said, with a disgusted face, "Are those clothes?"  I said yes, and he said, "Um, I guess we can take those."  What?  You guess?  Since when did the Goodwill become a snobby thrift store in L.A.?  Then I came back with the duvet cover and blanket.  (What, I was on my phone the entire time - I had to make a few trips.)  And while he was grabbing them, he said, "What now?  Oh geez, we don't take everything!"  I'm sorry are we not familiar with: "Beggars can't be choosers?"  And, you don't take everything? What, was I trying to donate my baby dressed in a giant hot dog costume?  I was handing over blankets - you know blankets, something people use to warm themselves...outside...when sleeping on the streets...alone...with no homes...because they are poor....too much? 

Anyway, before I left, I brought out my last item: the baby swing.  This is where he lost it.  I wish I could have taken a picture of him while I walked over with it.  First, he looked like I had just pulled out two severed arms from a corpse out of my trunk and was asking, "Do you think anyone could use these?"  And then when I attempted to hand him the swing, you would have thought I was asking him to hold my urine sample.  Immediately, he held his hands up and asked, "Now, what is that?!"  For a second I thought about saying, "It's a dream catcher used by the Aztecs," but decided to go with the, "Mom, hold on, I'm at the Goodwill...it's a baby swing."  (Yes, I was still on the phone!  My mom had been on a trip for 2 1/2 weeks, we were catching up.)  After a few seconds of him stammering and muttering to himself, he took my swing and proceeded to throw it, yes, folks, throw it onto the truck.  If I wasn't in the middle of a phone call I would have...okay, probably nothing, but still.

So, word to the wise, if you are thinking about donating something to the Goodwill, make sure you fully understand their motto of: "Donate to us what you would give to a friend" because apparently their definition of a "friend" is someone who wants only new clothes, is in no need of warmth and hates babies.  Hates, hates babies.

Is It Chicken Or Camel?

Recently I was informed that KFC is building a restaurant in Mongolia.  Why do I care about Mongolia?  Why don't you care about random pieces of news?  Sorry, that was uncalled for.  "June Gloom" in California makes me cranky.  Just be summer already - why does every day have to start with this delay of sunshine?!  We all know it's coming.  You can quit with the unnecessary suspense!

Anyway, the reason I bring up this new piece of information is because while I lived in Mongolia (oh, yeah, if you just tuned in to this blog, I lived in Mongolia for 18 months serving a LDS mission.  And yes, this fact is always a crowd pleaser at parties.)  Again. while I was living in Mongolia the closest thing we had to fast food was this place called MacDonalds.  (Remember "Mac" that's key.)  Anyway, the day this restaurant opened a bunch of missionaries and myself raced over there to sink our teeth into some quarter pounders, fries and chicken McNuggets.  Unfortunately, all we found were cold patties of questionable meat, sweet buns, a lot of mayo...a lot...cold fries, and if my memory serves me correctly, some type of vegetable concoction on the side.  Anyway, it was disgusting and yes, we did eat there about 8-10 times, always hoping that one day it would actually taste right, before McDonald's found out about it and shut it down.  After that it was back to eating loaves of bread and snickers for lunch.

Anyway, I hope that KFC is actually Kentucky Fried Chicken and not Genghis Khan's Famous Camel.  Because if it was...well, I would have only eaten there five times.

What?  Spoiler Alert: Mongolian Barbecue DOES NOT EXIST.  Again, DOES NOT EXIST.  No one is over there with some giant wok asking you if you want to add noodles to your filet and broccoli. Instead, you have the choice of sheep, fat of sheep, or sheep meat on bones that were left under someone's bed.

Close The Freaking Gap

In the land where I grew up traffic did not exist.  Sure, we would hear about it on the news, and sometimes people would come back from big cities with tales of driving below the speed limit on the freeways, but to be honest, it was hard for us to imagine. To us, speed limits were suggestions, lights were far and few between, and there were always six different ways to get somewhere using a old back road.

So, when I moved to L.A., and experienced my first real taste of traffic, you can only imagine what an ordeal it was for me.  First, I went through denial. I went out at three o'clock to run errands, thinking that if I didn't get on the freeway I would have no problem getting across town to Target.  Stupid.  How could I have known that at three o'clock the entire city of L.A. gets out of school, work, wakes up from comas and enters their cars to sit in jammed freeways and side streets?  Answer: I Should Have Known.  Secondly, I entered the stage of rage.  (I've been in this stage since moving from "denial" about two weeks after moving to Santa Monica.)  This stage consists of driving by people at 1:30 in the afternoon asking, "Where are you going? Why are you not working?  Go home!"  It also consists of a lot of slamming the steering wheel, mapping out alternative routes in your mind, and daydreaming of the day when the Apocalypse will destroy half the population and THEN you might be able to actually get somewhere in a timely fashion.

Lastly, it entails hating every idiot in front of me who refuses to close the gap in front of us.  You know what I'm talking about.  You know when you are in massive traffic and the car in front of you insists on driving even slower and allowing a football field to be between them and the car in front of them?  I hate this wasted space.  Freaking close the gap.  Honestly, I don't understand people that allow this to happen?  Are they just enjoying the traffic so much that they dread the time they actually have to reach their exit and get off?  Are they hoping that if they create enough distance they can finally drive the speed limit and not feel like they are in traffic as they move in the dead space they created?  (Can that even happen?)

Please will someone help me understand these people?  I just don't get them. To me, these are the same people, who order an entire meal, and then after taking one bite, announce in a lethargic voice, "I'm finished." Or who go to concerts only to make seven trips to the bathroom and to get beer.  They are wasteful people, and as far as I'm concerned, should not be allowed in traffic.  They call it "bumper to bumper" traffic for a freaking reason.

And now exhaling...

Oh, and while I'm still in the rage stage - come on Spurs...you had last night!  Geez.

Natural Order Of The Bird

Now listen, I'll admit I've dealt out my fair share of "the bird," while riding my bike.  (I mean, do you have any idea how many stupid drivers need to be congratulated for once again winning the ongoing contest of "Could An SUV kill a biker?"  Answer: Hundreds in Orange County and thousands in L.A.)

Yet, as many times as I've given out the bird, I must admit, I'm still completely shocked when I actually receive the gesture.* Take for example the other day:  I was sitting at a light and when it turned green the car in front of me didn't move.  So, I gave two gently taps of the horn to alert them to go.  And what did I receive in return?  Yep, the finger.  And not just a quick finger raised in front of the rearview mirror inside the car.  Nope, I got the entire arm extended out of the window and the finger raised for at least fifty yards.  Again, I got the entire salute OUTSIDE OF THE WINDOW.  Immediately, I felt myself sink inside my car, and then in miserable shame I muttered, "Geez mister, sorrrrryyy...."  As the car sped off, I drove in silence wondering what I had done that warranted such a response?  Had this guy just lost his job, and my horn was just the icing on the cake to a day that was most likely going to end in him driving off a cliff?  Have I encountered this guy before on my bike and he was finally evening the score with his own bird?  Or was I really in the wrong?  Did he see the light and just needed a moment to finish that text to his son that read, "Son, I'm sorry for our disagreement this morning.  I love you."  Why did I ruin that moment?

So, I'm left with a quandary.  Help me cyber world.  Do I continue to give the finger to cars that cut me off and drive too close?  Do I make them wonder why some girl on a little bike is declaring to the world that they are total jerks?  Or do I refrain?  And in the process, do I have to learn to take the bird - in order to not break the natural cycle of "give and receive?"  Because if I stop, will that stop everyone from giving the bird?  Will we then live in a world where no one is politely informed of their stupidity?

Wait, I think I just answered my own question.  I have to go stretch out my arms and fingers.

* Even when it's completely justified.

The Most Honest Entry of My Life

Lately the blogging world has been messing with my mind, and if I'm honest, my heart.  So, as you may know, I'm talking to you my two readers, you are only the only ones who read this blog, and therefore, I don't expect you to leave comments.  I mean let's be honest, comments are really only left to tell the writer, "Hey, pathetic person, who feels the need to publicly share your thoughts, I read them, now shut up," or to kiss up to some person they feel they know because they read their public thoughts while waiting at a red light.  I mean, at least that's how I've been categorizing the place for comments on my blog.  Why?  Because folks, I don't receive a lot of comments in these parts, and therefore to make myself feel less pathetic for wasting spending thirty minutes a day writing these entries, I tell myself, "Kate, no comments mean you really stumped your readers into pondering what you said, so buck up, write some more, because there's someone in Norway, who is too afraid to out themselves by leaving a comment.  Write for them."  Anyway, there you go - I have an insecurity about the lack of comments.

So, a few weeks back I wrote some entries about being locked out my house and about babysitting - and BOOM goes the dynamite, I have 65 comments on those two entries.  65 comments?!  As I scrolled down and saw the number, my first thought was, "You've done it.  You've finally found a topic that resonates with people."  And then I opened up the comments to see what all the buzz was about and what did I find?  Oh just a small hacking problem to my blog.  Apparently, a locksmith website was, "...really interested in what I had to say about locks."  And then I was directed to check out their website about locksmiths.  (Cue depressing music after losing at Price is Right.) 

So, listen cyber world - leave me alone.  Hack into my personal bank account, steal my identity, but please, don't leave 65 comments.  It's too heart wrenching.

It's Not a Leash, It's A Lion!

Yesterday, I was out walking the little one in my new BOB stroller.  (Which I pretty much nailed getting off Craigslist.  How good did I do?  Well, first I sold my crappy "non-running" stroller for $200.00, then I found a BOB, that had been on Craigslist for a few weeks, headed over, gave an offer below asking price and shoved the stroller into the car before the guy could call his recently divorced wife to see if she was okay with the low ball offer.  Again...nailed it.  As I drove off, I'll admit I felt a little bad for swindling this poor divorced dad, but hey, that's the cycle of selling on good ol' Craigslist.)

Anyway, as I was out, sort of looking over my shoulder for the divorced dad, who would most likely be tracking me down for virtually stealing his stroller, I noticed a child, probably three years old, being walked by his father in a monkey harness.  Now, I'm not one to judge...no seriously, can we discuss this?

First of all, to the company that makes these contraptions - disguising these harnesses as lions, monkeys and dogs doesn't negate, or mask the fact, that you have built an apparatus to control your child much like reins on a horse, yokes on cattle and leashes on dogs. Seriously, what was the creative meeting like on these things? Did someone stand up and say, "Honestly, if we make them look like a fun dog with long arms no one will notice a child is being led through the mall like inmate #11432."

Second of all, what did that kid do that warranted this straight jacket in the middle of suburbia?  Did he feed too much to the ducks?  Did he stop and smell too many flowers?  Did he fall behind as the family of four gently walked the circular path around the lake?  Seriously, when I walked past this kid the only thing going on in his head was, "Hey nice looking woman, with that brand new BOB, do you know the number for Children Protective Services?"

And lastly, parents if you are going to use these animal harnesses, please don't make the kid walk with actual leashed dogs.  I mean, come on, what are you teaching this kid?  Before you know it he'll be picking up his own poop in plastic bags and asking for his belly to be scratched just so he can get some attention.

I've only been a parent for nine months, but there's got to be a better way.  Drugs, maybe?

Out of Proportion

My actual hood as seen to your right.


Last Friday I made the fateful decision to head up to Santa Monica for a doctor's appointment and a little lunch with some friends.  As I was headed to my friend's house, the road I was traveling on was immediately barricaded by police.  Now, for most of you this would spark some curiosity as to what was going on.  You might think, "Gee, I think I'm going to get out of my car here and ascertain what is the matter.  I sure hope no one is hurt...and I'm sure glad these police officers are stopping traffic and not allowing any kind of detour."  However, if you have lived in Santa Monica, or any city for that matter, sadly your real first thought is, "Seriously!!!?"  Followed by, "Awesome, what did some idiot do now?"  So, as soon as I saw the brake lights ahead of me and the flashing lights of cops, I did what any street smart driver would do, immediately, hooked a left onto a side street and rode it until I hit another barricade and then...did the same thing.  Finally, after running one red light...that was definitely yellow when my foot accidentally slammed on the accelerator...I reached my friend's house.  And then the other sad thing happened...all through lunch we listened to sirens and helicopters, and again, not once did we feel inclined to find out what was going on.  It wasn't until our friend was an hour late to lunch did we think to maybe turn on the news and found out there had been a shooting a mile away.  A mile away.  Did we panic then?  Nope.  Just kept eating lunch.

I tell this story for two reasons, one, to obviously show how numb cool and urban I had become in Santa Monica, and two, to show how ridiculous the burbs are making me because last night, while we were finishing dinner, I heard a lot of noise coming from outside.  Immediately, I sprung out of my chair to see two boys playing some type of "Throw a ball against the garage and then grunt over and over as you run to get it..." or something like that. For ten minutes I just stood there fighting the urge to not go outside and tell them to shut up.

So again, actual shooting in city, no reaction.  Boys playing loud game outside my quiet condo - about to go postal.

Fascinating

So, lately I've been doing a lot of ironing, scrapbooking, reading, knitting, putting together first aid kits for kids in Africa...alright, watching TV.  Anyway, last night as I was putting dinner together I happened to have the TV on and started listening to Jeopardy.  After nailing two questions in a row about the Dodgers, and feeling like a complete genius, I might add, Alex Trebeck took a moment in the show to do some interviews of the contestants.  I must admit, these interviews have to be my favorite part of the entire show - mainly because for a few seconds I get to feel semi-superior to these freaks of nature, who somehow know every sonnet Shakespeare wrote and the entire Periodic Table.  (Yes, being an expert on those two things would classify you as a genius in my book.)

Anyway, last night the three contestants, Alex had to interview, were particularly "awesome."  For the first one, Alex read on his card, "So, it says here you like some interesting things about rocks.  What would that be?"  What proceeded could only be described as something less awkward than watching two elderly people french kiss.  Somehow through a lot of deep breaths and stutters, the fun fact genius, but social moron, described how he likes to go to different ponds and find rocks that have been sitting for long periods of time.  And as if that wasn't awkward enough, Alex asked a follow-up question of, "So, what's the longest sitting rock you've ever found?"  To which the pond geologist responded with, "Um, there's really no way to tell."  "Fascinating," responded Alex.  Fascinating?  Which part?  The part that his hobby doesn't actually make sense?  Okay, now that I write it out it does seem interesting.

The next two idiots were equally as strange.  One, is a huge fan of Anderson Cooper because he likes trivia.  (To which, she awkwardly looked into the TV screen and said, "So...I suppose, Anderson if you are ever in New York you have a...uh, standing invitation to our...uh...trivia night.")  What did Alex respond with?  "Fascinating."  Again, Alex which part?  The part where someone named Anderson Cooper is going to be filing a restraining order pretty soon in New York?

And lastly, the two time champion had to tell everyone on live TV that his two day winning total of $19,000 is more than he makes in a year working at a grocery store.  When hearing that, Alex asked the question that all of us were dying to ask, "So, are you going to stop working at the grocery store now that you have all this money?"  After a few moments of awkward silence, the contestant responded, "Um, no, it's really not that much money."

This made me laugh out loud.  Honestly, Alex, you are surrounded by trivia all day long.  You read questions with such confidence, that for a second I forget you have the answers right in front of you.  You rock a man bracelet.  (This has got to take confidence to pull off.)  Doesn't any of this sink in?  Haven't you gotten a little smarter throughout the years?  Or are you so immersed in stupid fun facts that you have forgotten that after taxes his $19,000 might come out to $9,000?  Do you know you can't really live off that for long?  Huh, Alex?  Respond!  And don't you dare respond with...fascinating...

The Art Of Selling

Oh, the adventures of selling items on craigslist.com continues.  This time I decided to sell a stroller, that was given to me by a past customer...I was going to use it, but then I saw on the stroller's website that they don't recommend you run or walk quickly with a child inside.  Um, that's not going to work.  No, my knees can't really run, but I would like the option to walk quickly.  What exactly defines "walking quickly" anyway?  Stride must be elongated an extra four inches, and the heel remains off the ground for 2.5 extra seconds?*

Anyway, after inspecting the stroller in a dark garage I decided to post it for $200.00 knowing that all the stroller morons out there would low ball me and hopefully I would receive at least $100.00 for it.  So, I posted it, claimed I had never used it (Which is true.  I never used it. The customer before me used it.  But me? Nope.) and - if you ever post something on craigslist.com, always put some stupid stuff on there like "Product Specifications and Weight of Item."  I don't know why, but freak, those stupid details are like sirens to a sinking ship.  Sometimes I just make them up:
Warranty: Forever
Made of: 20% Carbon Dioxide and Recycled Wood
Featured in the movie Beethoven I and II

People love that stuff.

So, anyway, after a few hours of posting my stroller one guy contacted me and said this was the exact stroller his wife was wanting.  (Apparently, she is NOT into walking quickly.)  So, I text my name and address and he responds with: "My name is Jesus.  Imagine that!  Why would you sell it to anyone other than Jesus?  You make sure you enjoy your loooonnnng lunch. Don't come back home till I get there. (Creepy Smiley Face.)  The "looonnnggg" lunch reference is to the fact that I said someone else might be coming by to see it during lunch. Apparently, Jesus wanted me to skip out on that other buyer.  Not very Christian Jesus...just saying.  Not very Christian Like.

Anyway, the other buyer fortunately didn't show up and I was able to sell the stroller at my asking price to good ol' Jesus.  I love craigslist.com.  I just hope that one day I don't get beaten for my "semi-embellished" posts...cus, apparently, once the stroller was in the light, I noticed some massive scratches on it from storing shoving it in my garage.  Did I say never used and in perfect condition?


* I created that definition.  Please do not attempt to test or duplicate.

Pink, Pink, Pink Means Freaking Girl

A baby dressed in a pink onesie, gray skinny jeans and pink socks is strolled into a grocery store by a mother, who yes, in the past has been mistaken for a boy, but now has blossomed into a woman.  (Well, at least is still nursing, and consequently, isn't leaving much to the imagination.)  This baby and mother encounter five different people through their course of shopping, and each time the comment is made, "My, what a cute boy you have!"  Once the mom regains consciousness after slipping into some dark places from her past, when salesclerks would tell her brothers what a cute little brother she was, she answers, and hates herself while doing it, "Gee, thanksss..."

So, random people, lend me your ear.  What's the deal?  Honestly, what do I need to do to drive home the point that my daughter is a girl?  Dress her in pink?  Oh wait.  Answer, "Well, I'm sure proud of HER?" Or, "I know, when SHE came out, I said to my husband, 'What a beautiful DAUGHTER we have been given?'"  Or are you asking me to do the unthinkable?  Are you "All I see are boys everywhere I look" people out there trying to tell me that I'm going to have to....I'm going to have to...I'm going to have to employ bows?  Huge bows?  Bows that NASA is going to ask me to stop wearing because they are mistaking them for new masses of land?  Is that what you are asking of me?

Well, I'm not sure I'm prepared to make such a move, but I am prepared to answer back next time someone tells me what a cute boy I have with, and this depends on who tells me - girls get: "Well, and same to you Mister."  And for the misguided boys, "Right back at ya, Little Lady."

What? I'm prepared to be hit in the face before my daughter goes down the bow road.

Like Time Through An Hourglass....

So, I have completed another parenting milestone...I've traveled on a plane ALONE with a baby. Yep, high fives all around.  For those of you who don't have children and fly a great deal, do me a favor and next time you are on a flight, just close your eyes and take a quick cat nap.  Just do it.  And when you wake up I want you to crack open a book and read it.  Read twenty pages.  And while you are reading ask the stewardess for a drink AND a snack.  Proceed to eat, drink and read.  When you get tired of these exercises please close your eyes again.  Why am I asking you to do these things?  Because if you ever decide to procreate you will long for those relaxing days of flying. You will long to read some stupid article about some crappy restaurant Southwest airlines has chosen to highlight in their in flight magazine.  You will even miss considering flying to Austin to find this restaurant.  You will miss the idiots who complete the Sudoku puzzles and who write two incorrect answers in smeared black ink in the crossword puzzle you were thinking about attempting, but knowing you would only get the pop culture answers right.  (I mean, I think I've heard of people approaching crossword puzzles that way.)  And you will even miss the boredom you feel from just sitting there waiting to land.  You will miss all of it because once you have a child, time seems to stop on a plane.  Minutes that used to fly, just like the plane you are sitting in, seem to linger and stop for moments of rest. Honestly, I would wrestle my child, show her books, feed her, show her the window for the twentieth time and then I would check my watch and notice that only 1 minute and 18 seconds had passed.  Honestly, were my parents being buried down below as I was stuck in this time warp???!!  Were flying cars actually passing us and was my husband living with his second wife as I was trying to get my child to stop grabbing the hair of my neighbor??!  Come on JetBlue, answer me!

Oh well, the good news was my child didn't have an explosive diaper, throw up all over me or cry out for the entire flight.  The bad news is we fly to Maui in a few months on a direct flight.  That's almost five hours of flying...or sixteen years in baby flight time.

Adventures in Babysitting and Lost Kidneys

The other night I had a total "How did I get here?" moment.  (No, this wasn't one of those times I was left in a tub of ice, with a sign next to me that read, "Call 911 because your kidneys have been harvested."  Because let's be honest - that's a major moment of, "How the beep did I get here?")  No, compared to that this was pretty mundane, but still gave me pause...Ah, shoot I did it again - too much build up! Isn't there some creative writing teacher out there that could teach me on how to not put myself in these writing conundrums?!  Anyone? I am about to compare a black market crime of stealing some date rape girl's kidneys to...wait for it...experiencing my first babysitter.  See...just awful.

Anyway, yes, the other night the husband and I left our less than 15 lbs., 8 month old baby, for the first time, in the "responsible" hands of a 15 year old babysitter.  Now, leaving her wasn't the moment in struck me of how crazy life is, because my baby was asleep before the babysitter got there, and remained asleep the entire time.  Again, let's recap, she was asleep the ENTIRE time and I still paid this kid to text for two hours inside my house.  Speaking of black market crime...

No, the moment I questioned how life had gotten full circle for me, was when I had to drive the babysitter home.  Oh, how I hated these awkward drives home.  Sometimes it would be done by the father, who reeked of some cocktail and asked stupid questions like, "Does your dad like his job?"  "Do your parents travel much?"  And then, while checking to see if the door was open, and if I could survive if I rolled out of the car, I would answer, "Yeah, totally."  Or I would have to endure the mother driving me home, which consisted of her desperately trying to get me to say how gifted her kid was, and how out of all the other kids in the neighborhood, he was clearly the most polite and well-adjusted.  And of course, the whole time this pathetic questioning went on, all I could think about was, I hope they didn't mind I ate that whole frozen pizza, put their kids to bed about an hour earlier than they had indicated and went through their CDs and photo albums.

So, there I was being the awkward mom and hating myself for it.  I tried to stop myself, but before I knew it, I asked, "Did she wake up at all while we were gone?" (Full well knowing that she didn't wake up because of my quasi creepy baby camera I have hooked up to my phone.)  And then when she said no, I said, "Yeah, she's been sleeping through the night since she was three months old."  CREEPY.  And then, if that wasn't awkward enough, as I was handing her the hard earned compensation money I said, while giving her a roll of ten ones, "Sorry, I work at a strip joint and this is all I had after a long night of..."  And there we sat, one confused 15 year old, and one old/pathetic 34 year old.

On the flip side our two frozen pizzas were still in the freezer when I got back....so, I'll be hiring her again.

Do You Have Keys?

The other night the husband and I got locked out of our house.  When I just wrote that sentence I thought, "'got locked out of our house' sounds like someone shoved us out the door, and when we pleaded to be let back in, a crazy man, with a large janitor ring of keys ran to our window, and while jangling the keys, screamed, "NEVER!  YOU WILL NEVER ENTER THIS HOME AGAIN!" 

Okay, so let me rephrase my first sentence: The other night the husband and I thought the other one had a key to our house, and while neglecting to listen to each other ask, "Do you have a key?", closed the door, and then proceeded to mutter, and sort of shout, certain expletives over and over again while we both came to the sad conclusion, that we both lacked the super human power to walk through walls and retrieve our keys inside the house. Yeah, I think that covers it.

So, yes, this would be the fourth or fifth time of our short marriage, we have managed to lock ourselves out of our house.  Fortunately, this time our keys weren't down an elevator shaft after I threw them at my husband while we were racing to our apartment, and I thought I could buy some time with my keys gauging him in the eyes (because that never happened...)  Instead, like responsible repeated past offenders, we had finally wised up and given a key to my mother-in-law, who lives 20 minutes away.  Unfortunately, in the midst of our rage and frustration, I couldn't exactly remember if I had or had not given her a key.  I knew we had talked about it, and I know it was definitely one of my resolutions for 2012, to not get locked out of my apartment again, but I couldn't be sure.  So, until we could confirm the existence of the key, we started the: "Four Steps Of Being Locked Out Your House."  We began with step one: How Do You Break Into Your Own Home?  You know this fun game.  You all of the sudden become a stealth ninja walking around your house trying all the windows and doors. (All the while hoping your neighbors know you actually live there.)

And then you move to step two: I Wish My House Wasn't Fort Knox.  Immediately, you start wishing that a window was broken, a screen was loose, an animal had started burrowing a hole into your living room, or that you forgot to lock some back door. 

And then, when you realize you don't live in the projects, you start:  What Are My Options?  For example, do you call the locksmith on a Sunday, pay the ridiculous price to open your door, or do you take a rock and smash your own window, which could be possibly cheaper than calling the locksmith?  Do you scale up the roof and try to shimmy down the chimney?  Do you curse the fact that your house doesn't have a chimney?  Do you consider just walking away and finding this to be a moment of freedom from your possessions?  Do you tell yourself you'll just start living off the land, and not worry about keys, locks and conformity? 

And then finally, after you have weighed all your options, pulled and pushed on every window, you move onto the last step of turning to your spouse and asking: "So, seriously, do you have a key?"  This step if fun for everyone because you can keep going back to it during the whole process.  Try opening a window and then ask, "Come on, do you have a key?"  Or walk around the entire perimeter of your home, hoping you'll find a key some key fairy dropped by accident, and when you get back, turn to your bewildered spouse and ask, "Did you check your pockets?"  See?  Fun!

So, yes, we fortunately got a key from my mother-in-law...will this be the last time?  Why should it?  It's always so much fun!

Channeling My Energy

Since moving to the burbs I've been finding it hard to find things to discuss on this blog.  Sure, I could tell you about my daughter's awesome two new teeth, or the fact that she still hates anything in the "solid" department, but let's be honest, I just got bored writing that sentence.  (Not that her teeth aren't cool, and slightly terrifying to me...since I could be possibly feeling them in a very, very uncomfortable way in the near future...she eats from my...okay you got it.)  Anyway, this morning I sat down to write something and nothing would come to me.  So, after ten minutes of having college flashbacks of when I used to stare at empty screens for hours on end while my brain couldn't muster a single sentence for my current history paper, I decided to once again leave you, my faithful readers, with nothing to do but check Facebook one more time.  

And then a few hours ago, the following took place:

So, I finally feel like my body has semi-returned back to normal (minus the Dolly Parton wannabes up top) and I've been trying to do a little shopping.  So, after nap time, I packed up the little one and headed for the mall.  After one hour of looking around and trying things on, the little one had a melt down in the changing room, which would have been fine, except for the fact that, the only thing I ended up wanting, after trying on clothes while holding a baby, actually had a flaw on it and which was the only one in my size in the entire store,  So, yep, you guessed it, after all the chaos and tears, the only thing I walked out of the mall with was a crying child.  (And not even gifted wrapped.)

But, hey, after seven and a half months of being a mom, I've learned to let these things roll off my back...or so I thought.  Fifteen minutes later I found myself exiting the freeway onto the streets of Irvine, with an out of control Prius on my tail.  Fearing this driver was rushing to some liberal meeting on the next Earth Day Celebration, I attempted to change lanes to get out of his way.  However, as I was trying to change lanes I managed to cut him off as we trying to do the same.  Consequently, he slammed on his brakes, swerved into the other lane, almost hitting another car, swerved again, and then raced down the street all the while aggressively changing lanes.  And then Irvine did what it does best, stopped the flow of traffic with poorly timed lights and allowed me to meet my friend face to face.  

Now, I'm not sure what possessed me, but as soon as my car came to a stop next to his, I mouthed, "Are you okay?"  (Not in a compassionate way with the tilt of the head, but more like, "What the beep is your problem?!")  He responded, while putting his phone down, with something, but I couldn't hear him because my window was up.  So, I did what any rational mother would do...I rolled my window down and said, "You want to repeat that?"  For the next thirty seconds we traded back insults about one another's driving, I threw in the "I have a child in the back seat" for guaranteed guilt and shame, he retorted back with "you started it," and then I said, "Whatever, you are being an a**hole..."  As soon as it came out, I almost started laughing.  What was I doing?  Sure this guy was being a jerk, but where did that come from?  He then said, "Well that wasn't very nice." (He had a point.)  So, I responded with, "Hope you don't kill yourself on the way home" and drove off.  (I'll admit, I didn't actually mean that...I mean the part that he "doesn't kill himself.")

So, what did we learn?  One, I need to stop berating the lights in Irvine.  Today they were actually pretty awesome.  Two, I'm a great mom.  Why?  Because instead of hitting my child and losing my cool, I remained calm and kind...and channeled that energy into something, I would definitely deem, more productive.  High five to me.